« Today, I consider myself the luckiest man in the world. » Franny, an old gentleman who attends an amateur baseball game every Sunday, repeats to himself the speech given by Lou Gehrig at Yankee Stadium during his last game, in 1939. Declaimed twice, in the morning and at After dark – at the beginning and end of the match (and by extension of the film) – the quote crystallizes the haunting melancholy that characterizes this beautiful character: Eephus is the story of a twilight, that of “Soldier Fields”, a small baseball stadium soon to be destroyed, the lair of the Riverdogs and Adler's Paint, two amateur teams who came to face each other one last time. You don't need to understand the rules of baseball or know who Lou Gehrig is to be struck by the poetics of the old man at the sidelines, who loves nothing more than watching others play, even when he's acts with broken arms. We could argue that the entire story of Carson Lund is presented to his gaze: in this amateur game, the gestures are still imbued with a certain know-how and are subject to the same attention as if they were accomplished by professional players. Baseball is a serious business and Carson Lund's direction strives to detect what in this vulgar setting (men, a ball and beers) relates to an almost mythological ceremonial, by infusing this with small touches. pathetic picture the emphasis inherent in great sports stories. Despite the recurring shots on the score sheet, it is less the outcome of the game that interests the filmmaker (and the players) than the prospect of its end. By prolonging the opposition between the two teams in a form of the state in which – it is one of the characteristics of a baseball match to last as long as there is a tie – the players thus manage to stretch time and thereby postpone the disappearance of this refuge where their dreamy idleness.
In the double quotation from Gehrig, one detail in particular attracts attention: Franny strangely repeats certain words (“ today, today, today ; myself, self, self “). The old supporter actually restores a memory in this way: that of the reverberation of the baseball legend's voice in the speakers of Yankee Stadium, which can be heard in the recordings of the speech. The sacredness of the stadium, like that of a religious building, relies heavily on its sound system. If Carson Lund, as a good cinematographer (he is notably the author of the image of Tyler Taomina's films), strives to film the autumn light gaining then leaving the arena, he also carefully restores the sound imprint uniqueness of Soldier Field. “ It's as if the stadium is speaking to us », says a player, suddenly becoming aware of the funereal tone of the moment. We hardly hear any cheers from the crowd, but rather the soothing rustle of a rural stadium on Sunday. The space of the film thus appears like a cotton cocoon where the outside world always bursts in through gleaming advertisements on the radio or the comical arrival of noisy visitors. Within it, Lund's division multiplies the angles of view, giving spectators the impression of exploring every corner of the field (which constitute so many alcoves in which to converse) and of letting themselves be lulled by the exchanges within the group. From awkward confessions to slightly inappropriate invectives, including some embarrassing “blanks”, the impression of calm emanating fromEephus above all reflects the prevented communication which governs this small community of men, whose erasure is experienced in silence.
Alone Franny
Who exactly are these Sunday players? “ Plumbers or something like that », says a caustic young spectator. We won't know much more, except that no one mixes with each other off the field, that everyone has better things to do elsewhere, but that everyone (or almost) will stay until the end of the interminable game . That these characters only exist through their attraction to baseball, leaving the social singularity of each person in the shadows, only makes the question of the future of their small community all the more crucial: outside the stadium, they do not exist not really. Initially resolutely light in tone, the film subsequently cultivates a comic art nourished by the spirit of dispersion that reigns on the ground. Noses in the air, distracted by the appearance of a pizza truck, a good joke or a tree branch, the players seem weakly magnetized by the game and any pretext is a good one to let their minds drift beyond the limits of the stadium. As night falls, the outside world and its vicissitudes appear more threatening, and the film is overcome by the irremediable and gloomy prospect of the dissolution of the group after the disappearance of this stadium that looks like a refuge: replaced by a school, the sports club appears to be a superfluous institution; no one fought for it.
« Do you know what’s coming out in the cinema? », inquires enthusiastically, Franny, this time surrounded in the stands by a few idle players. “ Non “, we respond laconically in an exchange which underlies an explicit link between the fate reserved for cinema and baseball (the filmmaker's two passions), as leisure activities that have become dispensable. The man at the edge of the field, who was given the role of referee at the end of the match, appears decidedly as the driving and most moving figure of the film: his eyes wide, as if to chase away the darkness which has invaded the field, his passionate gaze is the only one capable of giving meaning to a spectacle that even the actors resign themselves to finding insignificant. There is perhaps also another reason which explains why we love this character so much: hoping to find beauty in the match that is offered to him, even if the latter is mediocre, Franny constitutes a possible and ideal allegory of 'another profession – that of film critic.
